The Tin Man
by Mayle
Summary: Sherlock Holmes died two years ago. John Watson never knew him. So why would he now be wondering about the man? He hardly admits it, but a robot created in Sherlock Holmes' image causes him to suddenly begin to wonder who this apparently brilliant, handsome, marvelous man was. The robot clings to John, lost in the world of living, breathing people.
1. Chapter 1

"Do I know you?" John asked, hesitantly.

The man who stood before him was tall and handsome, but not quite normal. His hair was metallic silver and his limbs moved in stiff, jerky motions.

"No," the man stated simply, in a deep, ringing voice, "I am called SH221Beta."

John was struck by how mechanic the man's voice sounded.

"Should I know what that means?" John questioned.

"No," the man, S.H. stated, "I am simply informing you."

"Well, I'm John Watson," John said in response, "What is it that you need?"

"A place to live," the man answered.

"Do you normally ask strangers if you can move in with them?" John questioned half in sarcasm.

"No," S H answered, "But you have shown bravery."

"What? When?" John asked, wildly trying to remember the last time he was brave.

"Yesterday evening," S H droned, "You saved a woman from getting mugged."

"Oh," John said, remembering the incident, "That's not bravery. Anyone would've done it."

"Indeed not, sir," S H insisted, "Two other men passed and made no move to help her."

"If you say so," John shrugged, "Why do you need a place to stay? What happened?"

"My creator sent me to live on my own," S H said in a clear, firm voice, "I have nowhere to go."

"I'm sorry, creator?" John questioned, "Do you mean your mum?"

"No," S.H. stated simply.

"Your dad, then?" John offered.

"No," was the blunt reply.

"I'm sorry, are you some sort of robot?" John said, half in sarcasm.

"Yes," S H whirled, "I am an artificial intelligence unit created after the image of someone deceased."

"Right," John stated, running a hand through his hair, "Come on then. Maybe you can help my friend. He needs someone smart to solve his cases for him."

"What is a friend?" S H inquired.

"A friend is someone you care about," John explained, trying not to think too much on it, "Someone who you do nice things for and help them when they're in trouble."

S H nodded as though he processed the information, but didn't really understand it. John shrugged and turned to start towards where Lestrade had directed him to a crime scene. His medical examiner was out of town and John was the only one available on such short notice. A couple blocks later, John stopped in front of the crime scene and searched out Lestrade. He spotted him and quickly strode over.

Lestrade looked up and a small smile started to form, but then he caught sight of S H he gasped, dropped what he was holding, sputtered and ran forward. He grabbed the sides of S H's face with his hands.

"You were dead! You _are _dead!" Lestrade shouted, "You can't be alive! Sherlock! What's happened to your hair? Why are you here? What… how did you die but not die? What is going on?"

"I am not Sherlock," S H whirled in his machine voice, "I am SH221Beta."

"What?" Lestrade said, blinking hard.

"I am SH221Beta," S H repeated, "I was created in the likeness of Sherlock Holmes, who is deceased."

Lestrade dropped his hands and squeezed them into fists at his side.

"Who made you?" he demanded.

"My creator is Mycroft Holmes," S H droned.

"Mycroft? Really? I wouldn't have guessed that," Lestrade said absently.

"Er. Who's Mycroft Holmes?" John questioned.

Lestrade whirled back around (apparently he forgot John was there).

"Sorry, John," Lestrade said in reply, "Mycroft Holmes holds a position in the government. His younger brother, Sherlock, used to help me on extremely difficult cases. He was a genius. Absolute genius. But also an idiot. Anyway, he, um, he died…Apparently, Mycroft made this in an effort to recreate his brother? I don't know. That doesn't sound very much like Mycroft to me. Of course, I only met him a few times, so I can hardly be a judge."

"Where can I find him?" John pressed.

"Er. I have his card still, I think," Lestrade said, reaching into his pocket.

He frowned and patted another pocket. His frown deepened.

"He does," S H's voice called.

John and Lestrade looked to the robot to see he had a wallet in one hand and was looking at a business card in the other. Lestrade belted out a laugh and snatched his wallet back.

"Cheeky bastard," Lestrade chuckled, "You're just like him."

S H ignored the comment and held the card out to John, who took it and read the address. He sighed and shoved it in his pocket, turning back to the crime scene. He'd have a few choice words (such as arsehole and cold-hearted bastard) with this Mycroft Holmes later.

"Her butcher," S. H's voice caused John to turn back around, "The knives will match I am sure."

Lestrade shook his head and called a police officer over. He quickly told him to find the woman's address book and locate the butcher. John stared at him in surprise.

"Just like that, you're going to believe him?" John asked.

"I've learned that with Sherlock, you just have to believe," Lestrade answered.

"I am not Sherlock," S H droned, "I am-,"

"Yeah, yeah," Lestrade interrupted him, "You're SH221Beta. Now get out of here."

John took that to mean him too and hurried to the main street. He quickly hailed a cab and instructed the cabbie to go to the address on the card. He sat back and watched as S H looked out the window. Now that there was a pause, John could finally grasp how ridiculous it all was. Here he was tracking down an artificial intelligence unit's creator for the sake of chewing him out. To think, this morning the thing foremost on his mind was whether he ought to take an umbrella with him to the crime scene in case it rained. And then this tin man just decided to barge into his life.

He had to chuckle at the absurdity of it all. He really shouldn't trust the robot, but something in the way he looked at John with harsh blue-green eyes made John believe him.

_"I've learned that with Sherlock, you just have to believe."_

John wondered just how much like this Sherlock Holmes, S H was. S H's curls bounced slightly as they came to a halt. John wondered what color Sherlock Holmes' hair was, since he most certainly couldn't be metallic silver. John began wondering a lot about this Sherlock Holmes character. Most of all he wondered why he cared so much.

* * *

**Little note: Hi, my dearies. I wasn't sure I was going to start posting this one, honestly. I really like the idea but I wasn't sure how it was going to go across...I ran it by my brother and he seemed to like the plotline I gave him, so...here I am. I hope you like it! Love you all!**


	2. Chapter 2

John felt rather awkward entering the place. It was quiet and there was hardly anyone around. He went forward, looking for some sort of secretary. He found one, tapping away at her phone behind a small mahogany desk. She looked up as he approached.

"I'm looking for Mycroft Holmes," John stated, trying to sound like he knew what he was doing, "It's about his little brother, Sherlock."

The woman went back to texting and pointed behind her at a door John hadn't seen. John went around the desk and towards the door. He felt almost like he was going to the principal's office for a brief moment. As they drew near the door, John stopped and turned to S H, who stared down at him with a blank look. John pointed at a nearby seat.

"Stay here," John commanded firmly, "I'll figure everything out for you, ok?"

"Ok, Dr. Watson," S H agreed, sitting down in the seat.

"How'd you know I was a doctor?" John asked curiously.

He could've sworn he saw a smirk flash across S H's face, but when he blinked it was gone.

"Why else would the Detective Inspector need your help?" S H answered.

John rolled his eyes, but smiled softly. He turned to the door and straightened out his back, preparing to rip someone a new…ahem.

"Dr. Watson, to what do I owe the pleasure?" a cool voice called as soon as he stepped in the door.

John stepped forward to see a man with thinning brown hair and cold brown eyes looking at him from behind a large, magnificent oak desk. John strode forward and slammed his hands on the desk (sorry, desk, you really are lovely).

"How could you abandon him like that?" John shouted, "He's lost out there! He has no idea what he's doing!"

"I assumed the genius mind he was programmed with would kick in," Holmes answered coldly, "Clearly it did, since it found you."

"Seriously? That's all you have?" John asked incredulously, "You created him! You should help him and stay by him!"

"I didn't create it!" Holmes snapped, "It was sent to me!"

"So send it back, don't just release him into the wild!" John yelled.

"There was no return address, Dr. Watson," Holmes said calmly, "Or I would have."

"Why? Why couldn't you just take care of him?" John demanded.

"Because it's not my brother!" Holmes burst out.

He paused, taking a calming breath.

"I received it a week ago," Holmes said in a calmer tone, "With this note."

He opened a drawer and pulled out a small square piece of paper, which he handed to John.

"He awakens when someone who loves him touches him," John read out loud.

"I opened the box and saw my brother," Holmes said quietly, "I immediately reached down to check his pulse. It sprang to life and told me it was called SH221Beta. I said it looked exactly like my little brother, who was dead now. It seemed to take this to mean that it was created to look like my brother and be like my brother. But it is not my brother and I never wanted it."

John's hand tightened on the note.

"Him," he stated in a low voice.

"Pardon?" Holmes questioned.

"Him, he's a him," John explained, "You never wanted him. Well, I do."

With that he spun on his heel and marched out of the room.

* * *

S H's gears whirled inside him at Dr. Watson's words. Something fleeting ran through him. He tried to catch the corner and hold on to it. It evaded him, dancing slightly out of his reach. He squeezed his eyes shut in concentration, trying to hold the fleeing thing. Then Dr. Watson burst from the office, startling him out of his concentration, and he lost it, the passing thing, probably forever.

* * *

"You're really smart, right?" John questioned S H.

S H looked at him with a sneer.

"Yes, I'm really smart," the robot answered.

"Good," John stated, thrusting the note out to him, "Take this and figure out where we're supposed to go."

S H took the note and ran his fingers over it. John waited patiently as S H explored every inch of it. He sprang to life and thrust his arm out to hail a cab. John just followed silently, hoping he wasn't jumping into to something bad, since he was going in feet first.

S H was silent for a long time during the ride. John considered trying to make conversation, but what would he say?

"Why do you call me a him?" the robot buzzed out suddenly.

John jumped slightly and turned to look at the robot's face, which was scrunched up in confusion and frustration.

"Because you're a him," John answered.

"I'm an it," S H retorted.

"Just keep telling yourself that," John sighed, "Maybe you'll believe it."

S H fell silent once again. John stared out the window, watching as the buildings flew past.

"Thank you for your concern," S H suddenly said into the air.

John's head whipped around in surprise. It was the most human S H's voice had sounded in the hour or so that John had known him. He studied S H's face closely. It was perfect; too perfect. He didn't have any wrinkles or scars or anything. It was perfectly smooth and pale. Though his cheek bones protruded rather sharply from his face and his face was scrunched together in concentration.

His fingertips were pressed together immediately under his chin in a prayer style pose and John couldn't help but look at the long, spider-like hands. They looked perfect for playing the piano or maybe the violin. John's mother had played the violin for him when he was little. He supposed that's why he loved hearing violin music so much. He wondered if S H could play the violin or any-

"Yes," S H's voice snapped John out of his pondering.

"Sorry?" John questioned.

"Yes, I can play the violin," S H said, his head jerking to the left so his eyes could meet John's, "That is what you were wondering, is it not?"

"Yes, but how did you-."

_"I've learned with Sherlock, you just have to believe."_

The corner of John's lips quirked up slightly.

"My mum played," he said.

"Ah, I thought perhaps your father," S H said, "Considering you looked at a male's hands as such."

"Your hands don't look very manly," John pointed out.

S H wrinkled his nose at him and John just laughed. He laughed too hard for the situation, but it was the first time in a long time that he had laughed so genuinely. He wiped at his eyes and forced his laughter down, though his mouth was turned up in a wide grin. He turned to look at S H again, who was looking at him curiously with a tiny smile spread slightly over his perfect face. John's heart beat jumped up a couple notches and he decided he quite liked S H's smiling face in comparison to his normal stoic one.

"We're 'ere," said a gruff voice from the front of the cab.

John jumped a little, having forgotten there was anyone else in the cab with them.

"Thank you," John muttered as he slid out of the door behind S H.

He pulled out a couple of bills and handed them over, as he looked around for where the robot had gone off to. He spotted the shiny, curly hair some distance off. The head attached to the hair was turned up, looking at an old, run-down brick building. John jogged the short distance to catch up as the wind picked up. When he drew to a stop next to S H, the man turned to him and his silvery hair whipped around in the wind. _Wow, he looks so beautiful, _John thought as the robot's mouth parted to say something. He blushed furiously and looked away.

"Dammit," he mumbled.


	3. Chapter 3

"Excuse me?" S H prompted, "Why have you cursed at me?"

John's face turned even redder.

"Sorry, sorry," he muttered, "You were saying something?"

"This is the place that the note led me to," S H buzzed slowly as though he was talking to an idiot (which he was).

"Right," John said, nodding dumbly, "So let's pop in and have a look, right?"

"Do you not wish to know how I came to this conclusion?" S H said, his nose wrinkling in confusion.

_"I've learned with Sherlock, you just have to believe."_

"Nope," John said, shoving his hands in his pockets for warmth and starting for the door.

* * *

S H cocked his curl-clad head to the side as he watched John walk into the building. He followed slowly, silently cursing his jerky limbs. His infinite intelligence couldn't quite grasp why John believed so easily. He didn't seem to care about the way S H got there, as long as he did get there. That didn't make sense: people are as concerned with the path as the destination. Or so S H's hardware told him. Perhaps his hardware was faulty then? Or perhaps John Watson defied the norm?

"Looks pretty empty to me," John said as S H entered the building, "Doesn't look like anyone's been here in months. Well, wait. This is fresh."

John crouched in the middle of the room, his hand hovering above the floor. S H stepped over quickly and peered over John's shoulder. John was looking down at a splatter of blood. The pattern was concurrent with that of a quick stab to the abdomen. S H knelt down next to John, scanning over the blood.

"About a week old," they spoke simultaneously.

S H looked up in surprise and John raised an eyebrow at him.

"I'm a doctor," John stated, "And I was in the military. Don't look so surprised."

S H felt his face lift and it took him a few seconds to process that he was smiling lightly.

"I like when you smile," John commented, "Lights up your face quite nicely. Your brother said that he got you a week ago. Perhaps you were actually here at some point. Huh. I just thought of something. Do you have blood? If you do, this could be your blood."

S H brushed his fingers against his side.

"Not my blood," he said, "I've not been stabbed."

"Still, do you have blood?" John repeated, "That's kind of an important thing to know."

S H looked in the doctor's eyes for a moment.

"I do not know," he finally said in a quiet voice.

John's eyebrows furrowed. Then his hand came up and gripped S H's wrist.

"Well, you've got a pulse," John remarked, "If that makes any difference. It could be an artificial pulse. Hmm. Well, let's see then."

John pulled his hand away and reached inside his coat. A moment later he produced a blood sugar monitor. He took S H's hand and pricked it lightly. S H winced slightly and scarlet blood rushed to the tiny hole. John pressed the strip to the blood and pulled a cotton ball out. He pressed the cotton to the tiny wound and watched the machine. S H observed the routine, medical, yet caring way John tended to the situation.

"Well, you've got blood," John commented as the machine beeped, "And low blood sugars. You ought to eat something."

"I do not think I need to eat," S H stated.

John rolled his eyes and put away the little machine. He stood and dusted off his jeans.

"I think you do," John said in a rather commanding tone, "If you've got blood and blood sugar, which means you've got other parts in there that are human. And more often than not, human parts need food. So up you get."

He offered out a hand to S H who stared at it curiously for a moment before taking it. John hoisted him up and looked about the room, as though suddenly remembering where they were.

"You need to look around some more?" John questioned.

"I do not think I shall find anything worthwhile," S H said, scanning the room briefly, "I believe the Creator will find me when he wants to be known."

Something inside of S H twisted at that.

* * *

"So you're a cyborg then?" John said, proud that he knew the correct word.

S H paused in his hailing of a cab to look at John.

"I suppose I would be," he said thoughtfully, "Part human, part robot."

"See?" John said, smiling triumphantly, "I told you that you were a he!"

S H frowned at him and went back to hailing the cab. John was rather pleased with the discovery. He wondered how much of S H was human. Which parts were human and which were robotic? Clearly his brain was robotic, how else could he be so clever? And his heart had to be human, right? Or could a robotic heart pump blood the same way? Clearly he had a pancreas in there somewhere that was human. More than likely his skin was human and if John had to guess, he's say those cold, beautiful eyes were human too.

"Are you curious as to which of my parts are human?" S H asked, snapping John out of his thoughts.

"What? Oh, yes," John answered.

"You were looking over me," S H stated, "Scanning over my skin. You were looking quite intensely."

John blushed and jerked his eyes away.

"I do not know," S H said, "I don't know what is human of me and what is not."

"Well, it's no big deal, right?" John said, shrugging.

S H frowned, a frustrated and confused look decorating his smooth face. John smiled softly at the robot-_cyborg, _he corrected himself gently. He wasn't really sure what the hell he was doing with the guy, but he found that he wanted to continue doing it.

* * *

**Little note: I require sustenance (aka reviews). Seriously, if you want to get the next chapter, I gotta hear reviews, cuz the less I hear the less I write. Anyway, thanks for the few of you who have followed and reviewed. Did anyone favorite? I can't remember, but if you did, you are lovely!**


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